Remember (that night)
by Majinie
Summary: It's Alexander's wedding night. John reminisces. [Lams.]


_My first shot at anything Hamilton-related, be gentle._

 _..._

They had shared lingering glances, seemingly accidental touches and just a little more closeness than was strictly usual between good friends from the very beginning. John remembered being intrigued from the moment the scrawny man with the loud voice had first opened his mouth ("if you stand for nothing, Burr, what will you fall for?") and he'd felt the other's dark, expressive eyes on him even before that.

Alexander had leaned on him for support later that evening, cackling with alcohol-induced mirth, shoulders shaking with it when John wrapped an arm around them to steady him. Alexander had quieted, then, head falling back onto John's shoulder as he stared up at him and rendered him unable to look away.

The moment had been broken by Hercules stumbling against them and spilling half of his drink, but it hadn't been the first nor the last one that evening.

John remembered all these occasions with crystalline clarity. He knew the way Alexander could talk up a storm, dark eyes blazing and his hands flying, fluttering around him, never still, never stopping, and he knew the way the same Alexander went silent and eerily motionless when there was thunder rumbling above their heads and rain beating down onto their tent.

He remembered holding Alexander close that night, letting the smaller man curl into him and cling to John while he shook and flinched at every crack of thunder. He'd murmured meaningless words into Alexander's hair, nothing worth repeating but enough to serve as a grounding presence until Alex, exhausted to the point that his shivering had subsided to the occasional, weak shudder, had slipped into an uneasy sleep.

John remembered the first time Alexander had kissed him, quick and passionate in the spur of the moment like so many things he did, and he remembered the slightly wide-eyed, nervous look Alex had given him afterwards before John had leaned in to press his lips to the other man's again, effectively cutting off any sort of justification or apology from being spoken out loud.

He remembered the nights they'd made love under the thin blankets in their tents, as quietly as they could to avoid the risk of getting caught, remembered Alexander's breathy whispers and his light, almost shy touches that grew more confident as time passed, remembered the way Alex' hair would tumble down to frame his face, the way his eyes grew even darker when John whispered his name back at him. It was hard to forget, really.

Although, John mused, it seemed it came to Alexander easier than to him, if the light in his eyes when he looked at Eliza was any indication. He had watched his lover twirl the Schuyler girl – a lovely thing, really – around the dance floor for as he could bear before he had slipped out onto a balcony while nobody was paying attention to him. There was a half-empty glass of some alcoholic beverage or the other dangling from his fingers as he leaned against the stone railing, staring up at the clear sky and reminiscing, trying not to think of the fact that Alexander was most likely having the time of his life inside the ballroom right now, with Eliza and his new-found step sisters, with his _family_.

Of _course_ that meant a lot to him, John got that. He did. Truly. It was the first time Alex experienced a functioning family, what kind of person would John be to begrudge him that? No, he was going to get back in there and smile and be a good best man, a good best friend. In a minute. He merely needed a moment to compose himself.

Of course, things could never be that easy, could they?

The muffled sounds of music and chatter grew more pronounced for a moment when the door behind him opened and John turned, a smile plastered onto his face. It grew more genuine when he saw who had joined him outside.

"Lafayette," he greeted quietly and received a striking smile from the Frenchman in return.

"Mon ami," came the warm answer. "What brings you out 'ere all by yourself?"

John looked down at his drink, swirled it around in its glass. "I just needed some air," he muttered and looked up to give Lafayette a smile that was hopefully convincing. Concerned dark eyes met his and he immediately knew he had not fooled his friend.

"This does not mean he will stop holding you dear," Lafayette said.

John averted his gaze to fix it on his drink again so he wouldn't give his emotions away in his expression. "Of course," he agreed half-heartedly. "We're his friends, he's still gonna like us."

"Oh, I am not talking about _us_ , mon cher," the taller man responded gently. "I am talking about _you_." A little alarmed, John glanced up again – they hadn't told anyone about their involvement, not even Hercules and Lafayette. It had seemed too risky, not knowing how they would react. But whatever reaction he had feared might come, all he got now was the knowing, compassionate look in the Frenchman's eyes. "It's alright," he added, and John felt long pent-up tension drain from his shoulders at the words.

"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely.

Lafayette wrapped an arm around his shoulders in response, pulling John against his side in a firm, comforting half-hug. "Will you come back inside with me?" he asked and John, tucked against his side, glanced at the doors, the shapes of people he could make out by their shadows.

"Why don't you go ahead," he replied after a moment of hesitation. "I'll be there in a few minutes." As an afterthought, he tacked on: "I'll be fine."

For that, he received a critical look from Lafayette, but then he patted John's shoulder gently. "I see," he said. "Then I shall see you later, mon ami."

"Sure thing," John answered with a smile that didn't feel quite as forced as before. He raised his glass in a small toast and his smile was returned before his friend slipped back inside, probably aware that pressing John for answers wasn't going to get him anywhere.

With a sigh, he turned his back to the door once again and sipped on his drink. He didn't feel like going inside just yet.

He wasn't sure if that made him a horrible person, but seeing Alexander so happy with Eliza was hard to bear, especially with the letters in mind that were safely tucked away with his belongings. Had Alex sent the same carefully crafted words to Eliza?

 _My dear Lauren_ s... _my dear Eliza?_

The door behind him opened again, light and music and laughter spilling out onto the balcony before it clicked shut again.

"Laf, I told you I'd be there in a minute. Go find yourself a _petite mademoi_ s _elle_ or something." He didn't look up when the other man leaned against the railing beside him.

"Okay, first of all, your French is atrocious."

John jumped and turned. "Alex! I was just catching some air, I was about to head back inside, I swear, I just –"

"Hey." Alexander slid a warm hand over John's chilled one resting on the cold stone railing. "It's okay."

John smiled wryly. Everybody seemed so intent on telling him that. "Of course," he replied hollowly. "I... you're good together, I've seen the way you look at her, it's – you love her." He had to force the last three words past a suddenly tight throat and Alexander's hand tightened on his.

"That doesn't mean that I don't –" he began and cut himself off just as quickly. He was better with those things in his letters, John thought. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"It's okay," he echoed the other man's earlier words. Despite that, he felt a sharp sting of disappointment when Alexander's hand left his. Usually, he was more stubborn than that.

Then, there was an insistent tug at his shoulder. He let himself be turned around after a moment, leaned back against the railing to stare at Alex without looking confused or longing. The shorter man met his eyes firmly and took two steps backwards into the middle of the balcony before he extended a hand toward John.

"May I have this dance?"

Large, dark eyes were fixed on John, who sputtered. "Stop that, Alexander, you're being silly." He held his drink in front of himself defensively.

"I'm not," Alexander insisted. "Come on, Laurens, dance with me."

John was tempted, but shook his head. One of them had to keep a level head after all. "We can't –"

Brash as ever, Alex stepped in, reached out to pluck the glass from John's loose grip and set it down to precariously balance on the railing behind John before he took both of his hands in his own to pull him with him as he stepped backwards again.

"Alexander, someone is gonna see, you're going to –"

"Talk less, dance more," Alex cut him off and John scowled.

"Don't Burr me, seriously, you of all people..."

While he was busy protesting, Alexander tugged one of John's hands to rest on his waist and clasped the other with his own. John sighed in defeat when his lover took a step back, vaguely in tact with the music they could hear playing softly from inside.

John went along stiffly for a few seconds, then closed his eyes in defeat and drew Alex closer. He took the lead, keeping their pace slow, small steps moving them around the balcony, his cold hands regaining some warmth from Alexander's body heat.

For a few minutes, he could pretend the muffled music from the inside was playing just for them, Alexander and him under the clear, if cold sky. Their breaths came out in small, white clouds that dissipated into the air between them like so many unspoken words – regrets, promises, apologies, confessions. So many things they'd written in letters received on lonely nights, things they'd never said but knew all too well nonetheless. Things that didn't need to be said, things that perhaps should not be said.

For a few minutes, John got to bask in those things, got to cradle Alexander close and have him move with him, pressing close against the chill.

Eventually, however, the waltz that had been playing faded away and John reluctantly came to a halt. He refused to let go just yet, pressed his lips to Alexander's hair and heaved one, two shuddering breaths while he blinked rapidly against the tears blurring his vision. He was not going to cry on his best friend's wedding night.

Alexander squeezed his hand and John exhaled with a shiver before he stepped back to meet the other man's gaze. Alexander's eyes were large and dark and vulnerable, reminding John that this wasn't as one-sided as his mind would have him believe; with a bitter-sweet twist in his chest, he pressed a kiss to the other man's forehead and watched Alexander's eyes flutter shut, a shaky, uncharacteristically quiet sigh on his lips.

For once, he didn't have anything clever to say. Instead, he squeezed John's fingers gently and asked: "Will you come back inside with me?"

"Yeah," John murmured, almost a whisper, and he knew he was going to remember this, too, their shared minutes in the cold outside the ballroom, for a long time yet.

Alexander's "thanks" drifted around them in a cloud of white, frozen breath and John let himself be tugged along by his hand, back toward the door that led toward the ballroom.

When they stepped over the threshold, music and chatter suddenly at full volume again, Alexander's fingers slipped away from his and John thought he might remember the feeling of something colder than the winter air settling around his heart and _squeezing_ for even longer.


End file.
